Silver Strands

They are silver hairs, not grey. I describe them that way because, seriously, they glitter like silver. Grey to me implies a plain boring tone, and these shimmer as they lean toward white.

I'm writing about these hairs/threads because because for the first time in my life, last week, I saw myself and thought, "I look old." I have never feared getting old. And, I suspect even when I am "old" whatever that is, I'll have a youthful appearance (big eyes/big head does that). But this was my first experience with disliking some aspects of aging. In particular: my skin looks like crap. I've got wrinkles, which have never bothered me before. Everything seems blotchy. And too many photos lately have made it seem as if I have dark lines going along the side of my nose down to my mouth. Like Deputy (Droopy?) Dog or something.

Vanity. Sure. That's mostly all this is and it will pass. But it's not nothing and it's not just a shallow experience. I'm recognizing I'm no longer in the generation of the "young," and am entering have entered will be entering "old." I've had many startling experiences where I realize those around me already see me that way. Or I just realize it again and again on my own. You mean the characters on Psych aren't peers? (They're in their 20s, m'dear.)

The idea of being "grown up" is something I've danced with for ages. You'd think having a child or home ownership or marriage might speed up my familiarity with that concept. But, no. I don't think I'll ever feel "grown up" in the way I always thought I might. I had a mythic conception of what that meant, and it's not something I ever want. I'd lose who I am inside if I became a "grown up" as I was defining it. I will likely never become someone who has routines, schedules, or consistent habits. Not gonna happen.

But, growing older, of course, will continue happening. I'll be 40 in July, so it's definitely going on. What's been most striking about this past week's findings is that I've never before had any sense that getting older might be hard or unwanted. I've always proudly said, "I'm just like my Mom, I've always loved the age that I am." And that's still true. And, honestly, the wrinkles and dried skin and ridiculous undereye circles don't really bother me (as for the circles, I am 20,000 months pregnant and only slept 3 hrs last night). My husband and people who care about me see me through love-filtered glasses that can't judge negatively. I have the same for them. I also know that I'll learn to love the new older qualities in my physical being. As more of me sags ("your belly is like bread dough, Mommy!" says Maya), and more of me changes color and gets wrinkly, I'll still be me inside. Once I connect the outer and the inner, the outer becomes beautiful again.

Friends of mine think it's funny when I have talked about being "young." In their experience, especially with family who did hard manual labor for work, "old" starts much earlier than in my circles. Where I'm from, people start second or third careers in their 40s or 50s. Life is really just getting going in our 30s. Where they're from, your body starts giving out on you by your 40s and it's an aching experience to make it to retirement age. If retirement is even an option.

Of course, besides the realities of colonoscopies, the coming mammograms, eyesight failings, and my parents' mortality, age will always be that flowing and powerful state of mind. When I see myself in the mirror or in photographs, I may still sometimes flinch and say, "That is me?!?!?" because I feel so much like a young child inside. But, thankfully, I also have those love-filtered glasses all around me. People who wouldn't care if every inch of me was blotch and wrinkle and flake. If I have to leech off of their acceptance of me sometimes, that's what I'll do. Most of the time, I expect I'll stay in the blissful state where my Mother mostly stays... "I've always loved the age I am right now." And then I'll take a nap.

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Growing

When I go into labor, we'll call my parents. They live about 2 hours away. They'll come to hang out with Maya. They'll take her out of the house when the birthing gets intense (as soon as it's obvious I'm needing to focus on the process). Maya won't be here for the actual birth. Some almost-six year olds stick around, but that's not comfortable for me.

We've begun priming Maya for the process. We've talked about it all along, how she won't be here when Althea is born. She's okay with that. She understands that it might seem like I'm hurting, that I might make noises that are loud or scary sounding even though I'll be okay. We both agree neither one of us wants her to worry about me. (There are lots of other reasons I don't want her here, but that is a big part of it: I don't want to worry about her worrying.)

We haven't, however, spent a lot of time going over the actual plan of events. The plan includes the possibility that she will spend the night in a hotel with Gramma and Grampa.

Some background here. A few months ago, Maya said she didn't like sharing a friend of hers with other friends. She said, "It made me realize I'm going to have to share you with the baby." Insightful for a 5.5 year old. From that moment, though, she became more clingy than she has been since she was about 3 or so. Tears flow if/when Josh and I need to leave her for even an hour. The struggle is exhausting.

Lately, things have loosened up just a bit. My venture to the hotel last weekend also opened up some beautiful doors for the Daddy daughter relationship. And, last night, Maya successfully didn't wake me up even once. (Until last night she would wake me up any time she wanted me to roll over and snuggle her, give her water, scratch her back. I informed her 2 nights ago that had to change or I'd have to sleep in another bed. She did it perfectly last night, Josh handled the requests and there were fewer of them.)

This morning I mentioned to her that we'll need to pack a bag for her in the next few weeks. Why? she said. Because if Althea decides to come when it's night time, you'll go with Gramma and Grampa to a hotel, I said.

Her face first flashed terror, almost tears, for just a second she looked as if she were weighing her options. Then the bravest little big smile shone across her face and she said, I'll bring Sealy and my blanket with me! (The closest things to "lovies" or "security blankets" she's ever had.)

I was nonchalant. As if this was a totally normal response. (Normal would have been breaking down into panicked tears, DON'T GO, DON'T GO!)

I am so, so, so very proud of her already.

Jesus Existed.

A brief follow-up to my Jesus Never Existed post.

For the record, I believe Jesus of Nazareth existed. I believe he was a great and gifted teacher and healer. I also believe Jesus as Christ only happened when his followers placed that on him.

As for "no first-hand accounts," I wrote my Jesus Never Existed essay to acknowledge this truth. The accounts we have of Jesus of Nazareth are, so far, not first-hand accounts. And, to that, I say, "so what?" Going back that far in history it's not very common to have first-hand accounts of anything. And, as a wise theologian wrote to me, "Proof cannot be an operative word here, since we're dealing with the past. The only question that counts is historical probability."

Moving on to discussions of the resurrection I'll happily explain that on every third or fourth day I'm perfectly content with that as reality. The other days I'm more comfortable with it as metaphor. What makes me a sort of wacky Christian is that I don't care. Both work for me. If I'm celebrating poetry or a miracle can change from moment to moment.

Let's love our neighbors, care for the least of those among us, look beyond ourselves for strength (some of us will go to god for that strength, others go elsewhere), and work for social justice every day. If some of us call that christianity, why argue?

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Turning

This baby's head is up. It's about time she should be head down. This is the week or two window where she needs to move. She can move later, but, it's a lot less likely. Maya was a "footling breech" -- she just stayed with her little feet tucked totally uncomfortably by my bladder, head by my ribs. Yow.

I've been struggling with the notion that I can "think" Althea into position. I worked a lot with meditation with Maya to encourage her to move. Some say breech babies may be in that position due to the mother's fears (tightening up or something...?). I haven't felt particularly fearful. Though I've never given birth vaginally, so, I suppose on some level I think it's insane that something so large could fit through what is typically not that large a space. But I also think it's insane that a living being could be growing inside me, and I don't doubt it's the case.

But, really, I feel at peace with all of this. Both the birthing experience and the fact that she might not turn. I can envision both scenarios very clearly and neither one is distressing.

The only distressing part is that if she does stay as a footling (which would require major surgery for her birth) I do worry that my feeling at peace with that would be the reason she stayed put. That is, if I were vigilant about trying to get her to move (lots more pelvic tilts, swimming, meditation, drinking even more water, acupuncture, external (and internal) "version," all the things we did with Maya), if it were freaking me out that she hasn't yet, then maybe that would mean I care enough and she'd actually move.

Could my acceptance be complacency?

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